Benediktas Januševičius is a poet and translator, and a tireless chronicler, cameraman and photographer of Lithuanian literary life. He is one of the most curious language experimenters in Lithuania. He started with punk surrealist poems and created poem-objects and is now exploring the possibilities of language and sounds. His urban lexicon is embellished with jargon and “street” language. According to the counter-culture activist Darius Pocevičius, “Having consistently examined the oberiuts, the dadaists, the surrealists, the Vienna School, Fluxus, the minimalists, the conceptualists, and finally, the Lithuanian ‘Four Winds’ figures, and having let them filter through his archetypically Lithuanian peasant brain, Benukas [the diminutive form of Benediktas] has succeeded in fending off the school of rigid decadent Lithuanian poetry.”

Benediktas Januševičius

Poems from the book „Words“

this text doesn’t have an end and perhaps no beginning eitherit’s just a text and nothing more

this text can’t save the worldit’s just a text and nothing more

this text has no pointit’s just a text and nothing more

this text has no meaningit’s just a text and nothing more

this text could be no one’sit’s just a text and nothing more

this text doesn’t have a heart that could stop beatingit’s just a text which

can’t die for its fatherlandit’s just a text and nothing more

this text is not about loveso it’s just a text and nothing more

nothing is written hereabout sex or mortal diseasesit’s just a text and nothing whatsoever more

nothing is said here about harmful habits:smoking, getting drunk, narcotics

and you won’t find answers here to pressing questions,e.g., is your fiancé faithful?where can I get a good job? how can I make lots of money?

so – ask yourselves – what is this text for?this text and nothing more

why such a text if nothing hurts?why a text if everything is already understood?

it’s hard to see, you see, this text has no mouthso it can’t speak

this text has no hands, so it can’t gesticulatethis text has no feet, so it won’t go away

maybe everything has already been written

Mary Shelley once wrote FrankensteinBram Stoker – Draculafrom neither this nor that, Dostoyevsky came up with Demonsand Borges – the entire Book of Imaginary BeingsChekhov offered them “Ward No. 6”

but such trivialities didn’t please Tolstoy – he wanted something broaderso he patched together War and PeaceRemarque went off to war to get clear on the what and whereforand understood that war is shitHašek was also in the same warand similarly understood that war is shitthat peace is much better, and beerthen Apollinaire died in that war and never wrote anything else

Vonnegut was also sent to war, but landed in a different onethe second, and was taken into German captivityhe saw how American and English planes bombed Dresdentens of thousands of people died there“what can you do?” – remarked Vonnegut Orwell spent the war at home and soon experiencedhow big brother is watching everyoneBukowski also missed that warhe just drank and wrote, wrote and drankdrinking is more fun, after all, than dying in warhe wrote it like that: “and I drank...”no! those are the words of Venedikt Yerofeyevhe wrote it like that: “and I drank...”and he drank(then came a pause, taking up a whole chapter)

Bulgakov, in his turn, took morphine, laterhis bibliography was enhanced by the story “Morphine”Junkie made Burroughs famousalthough Cocaine Romance made no one famousthe author remaining unknown for some timesome thought it might be Nabokov’sbut they received threatening letters from the writer’s widowand promptly desisted

Sorokin’s characters in Norm looked particularly normalthey didn’t use intoxicants, but periodically swallowed what had already been swallowed beforeit’s not clear what Kharms’ heroes used, neverthelesshe forgot what comes first: 7 or 8, 8 or 7even if he had wanted to, Dickens couldn’t have helped muchbecause he could count only up to A Tale of Two CitiesDumas didn’t do much better with The Three MusketeersIlf and Petrov did a little better, getting The Twelve Chairsinto one book, but they witheld information from Kharms’ characterwho died still no knowing what comes first: 7 or 8, 8 or 7but then the irrepressible Jules Verne decided to show everyonewhere the fishes go to sleep and dove Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

unmoved by ocean depths, Romain Gary became a pilotand rose up into the skythen shot himself laterKerouac went out on the road and never came backMayakovsky shot himselfPlatonov died of tuberculosisHemingway shot himselfPushkin didn’t want to do that, so he had to be finished off

so what can we add to this?

on freedom

there is no freedom – say the optimistsgive us back our freedom – say the sceptics

today it’s not so easy to talk about freedomfreedom, it seems, is a kite that has bolted on a long journeyit’s a river slithering byfreedom is like a rock flung at a friend’s foreheadfreedom is knowing that no one else is responsible for the consequences,that he himself is to blame for everything, because he happened to be at the wrong placeat the wrong time, you see, he woke up and got upand thought the wrong thing, gazed in the wrong waymaybe his soul received the wrong injections

freedom – a felled tree, still holding on to lifeand when it finally lets go – you can use it!freedom – a mortally wounded animalwhose flesh will soon be torn by vultures,this once sweet wordhas today grown bitter, frayed – it’s homeless

some hold forth on the merits of servitudemany say, to hell with this freedomwe just want a normal life(I intended to change the words “to hell” but forgot)

freedom is now so transparent that you can barely see ita little bird pushed out of its nest has the freedom to floundertime is free – it can’t stopthe freedom to lie is somehow considered justicebut that can’t be freedom, I wonder, and don’t know what to answerbecause today it’s so hard to talk about freedomeverything I could say might already have been saidalready used, already sorted out

“I’m free” – just two words in my languagealready without meaningtoo many people are worried about my freedomthey watch it, weigh it, grope it, diagnose and describe itthey formulate it and define itpublish it and stamp it with a sealthen leave it to suffocate

am I free? – I ask myselfcould I be free? – I have my doubtsam I under arrest? – not yet

train histories

in the morning, around 8:35, a train departed from point A to point Bat the same time, another train departed from point B to point A, unfortunately,the trains didn’t meet or pass each other on the waythe train from point C left with a clamour – it was reservedthe train from point D is delayed, the engineer explained:there is a war on now, so trains are running late, nothing to be done,we’ll get moving sometime, no point in pretendingfrom point E, the train flew like a bat out of hell, but soon began to clank,pant and then stand stillthe engineer for the train from point F decided that his job that he’s worked for 17 years is unpleasant, so he jumped out of the locomotive; furthermore, today is Thursday, a good day to begin a new lifetrains are strictly forbidden to leave point G, andno one comments on the circumstances as to whythe train from point H left on time and got lostthe train from point I left in secretthe train from point H left at noon. when the column reached its goal,it turned out that the train had no passengers. where they went, no one knewthe train departed from point K, but point K has no train station,nor any train tracksthe train left point L but when it reached the tunnel it turned backthe train departed point M but ran out of fuel, rumors are flying that it just remained sitting there where it came to a haltthe train from point N only left after a week becauseit couldn’t decide which route to takethe train from point O didn’t even budge because...the train from point P was hindered from starting its journey by weather conditionsthe train didn’t leave point Q because of circumstances that should not be mentionedin decent companyjust after leaving point R, the train managed to run off its tracksthe train was stuck at point S because the route was cancelledon the train leaving point T, the conductor looked two sheets to the wind –he could barely stand on two feet, and berated the passengers whomhe suspected of holding counterfeit tickets, and demanded the police be called inhowever, the police stopped the train from point U, arrested everyone and drovethem away in an unknown directionthe train travelling from point V was buried by bouldersthe departure of the train from point W was delayed for an unspecified timeon the train travelling from point X, a young man couldn’t take his eyes offthe human in front of him: he was trying to decide – what is this?a man or a woman? they began to talk, embraced, kissed, the train arrived on time at its appointed spot and they parted ways robbers attacked the train from point Y, disembarking the passengers,burning the wagonson the train departing point Z, a traveller was looking out the windowcontemplating whether the word “his” is connected to the word “history”,but that is for another time

woodlice

after Stasys Jonauskas

woodlice are peaceful, feeble beings, in Latin labelled “Oniscidae”,but they don’ know what this word means, and Latin is Greek to them, nor do they hold diplomas or passportsand they don’t turn their heads when others call them know-nothings or refugeesespecially because it’s hard to say where a woodlouse’s head ends and its body begins.

woodlice tend to avoid sunshine, preferring twilight or total darkness.their feelings are ordinary, their lifestyle not so sly, they remember what they need to knowor write it down on their backs, using incomprehensible writing tools –so we will never figure out what makes these melancholy underground historians unique.

woodlice once left the wet and rapacious world of crabs, moved to dry land and became vegans,now they live in darkness, between mold and the old, feeding on dust, debris and greenery,if you ask them how they’re doing, they say “great!” because in nature there is room for everyone –you just have to look a little bit, a tiny little bit, for your niche.

woodlice never force their opinions on others, never wrangle over tendencies in contemporary art,avoid discussing movements in the markets and politics, and they don’t bet on horses.they’ve been around for hundreds of millions of years and have yet to lose at anything serious.generally, woodlice get in no one’s way, remaining, for the most part, unseen.

no one gives them prizes or medals for living such a lifestyle, after all, what would someone say? – for having won at nothing at all, we grant you this... yes, they are respected for the simple fact that they don’t bother anyone, deserving nothing.no one likes an upstart, but the furtive don’t stick in anyone’s craw, attracting attention only from certain especially secret services.so let’s decide for ourselves whether it’s worth living this way – like quiet, grey woodlice.